


cue terrible porno music

by arthur_pendragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 'Slightly' Cracky, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Canon Era, Early in Canon, Episode: s01e01 Dragon's Call, Humor, M/M, Promises of Blowjobs, The Author Regrets Nothing, slightly cracky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 23:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21044627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthur_pendragon/pseuds/arthur_pendragon
Summary: Merlin groans. “Come to gloat?” he asks.“I would if you seemed anything but at home here,” Prince Arthur replies, coming to a stop right in front of the bars like a portent of misery.





	cue terrible porno music

**Author's Note:**

> i lied in the tags. i regret everything.

The dungeon air is reminiscent of stale hay. There’s a puddle by the corner, growing by the hour as water drip-drops from the high window grate. Merlin, sat as close to the bars as he can, is not having the best of days.

Perhaps Gaius will come get him out again. Does he have any pull with the gaolers? Could he get Merlin into the stocks again? They’d been far more entertaining than this ode to decay.

Merlin sighs. The sound is remarkably clear; he is quite alone. No other prisoners in the dungeon, not with the festival going on. Not even a prison guard close by to natter with.

Not even a week in Camelot, and already he’s made an enemy out of the biggest prat in the area. He’s got to make sure this never gets back to his mum, else she’ll call him right back and his week-long journey to Camelot will have been a waste.

Water drips, drips, drips into the puddle. It gets dark outside; the only illumination Merlin has is a flickering torch right by the bars, and meagre starlight from the grate. This is how Camelot treats its criminals and its… well, its people-the-prince-dislikes. Miserable. Ealdor hadn’t needed a gaol. Ealdor hadn’t had prats. Except maybe Will sometimes. God, Will would laugh and laugh if he found out.

Merlin sighs again, resigning himself to a second consecutive uncomfortable night on the dank floor.

Not five minutes after he closes his eyes, arm making for a very poor pillow, strident footsteps echo in the corridor. Merlin jerks out of his stupor and sits up. The pace and weight of the steps is too fast and light to belong to any guardsman, what with all the armour and weapons they constantly bear. It isn’t a woman, who would be far more sedate. It isn’t Gaius with his shuffling gait, or another prisoner, either. The only remaining person with any connection to Merlin is... oh, not him again.

The man comes into view, and Merlin groans. “Come to gloat?” he asks.

“I would if you seemed anything but at home here,” Prince Arthur replies, coming to a stop right in front of the bars like a portent of misery. “Settling in nicely, are we?” He folds his arms and sneers at Merlin. His hair gleams in the torchlight, and his skin looks burnished gold.

“Piss off!” Merlin turns away and flops down onto his side, shamelessly showing Arthur his back. Undoubtedly a sign of disrespect that’ll get him an extended stay here. It’ll be worth it, certainly.

“Why _ever_ would I do that,” says Arthur — _Prince_ Arthur — with (surely fake) pleasantness. “This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.”

“Doesn’t say much about your daddy’s men, that.” How utterly fascinating the window grate is. The moon has risen; its broken light shimmers on the puddle surface.

“You really don’t understand how to talk to a prince, do you?”

“You really don’t understand how much I don’t _care_ that you’re a prince, do you?” Merlin gives up staring at the horrid puddle and rolls over to stare at the arsehole instead.

“That attitude’ll get you nowhere with me, _Mer_lin,” Prat Arthur warns.

Grimacing, Merlin says, “As if I’d want to get in your good books.”

“Don’t forget, I could take you apart with one blow,” Arthur says, a repeat of his threat from before. He seems wondering at the extent of Merlin’s stupidity.

Merlin snorts and goes for the tart rejoinder he’d held back last time. “You couldn’t fit it all in your mouth if you tried.”

This was the wrong thing to say. The ringing silence that succeeds his words is proof enough, with Arthur’s expression closing off like the citadel portcullis at night. Merlin’s crossed a line with this particular backchat, and now Prat Arthur will use his princely powers to kill him? Maim him? Destroy any evidence that a boy called Merlin ever existed? To unlock the door set into the iron bars and hook the keys into his belt, it appears.

Merlin gapes.

“Get up,” Arthur says, seemingly confident that Merlin won’t bob and weave his way around him to escape the dungeons. His hand inches towards his sword. Merlin wonders with growing panic if he’s going to have to out himself as a sorcerer, simultaneously save and endanger his life. No, Arthur’s only unhooking the sword, sheath and all, to place it on the ground.

Merlin rises to his feet and staggers from pins and needles as blood rushes back into his legs. He probably ought to get as far away as possible from Arthur (who might not behead him at the moment, but who looks ready to continue the fight Merlin had started the other day).

Arthur takes a short, loud breath. “Make me.”

“Make you what?”

“_Make_ me fit it all in my mouth.”

Merlin freezes. “What are you on about?”

Provocation glints in Arthur’s eyes. “You’ve realised it, I’m sure, unless you’re even more of an idiot than I’d suspected. Are you?”

Merlin isn’t. Not really.

“Are you looking for an excuse to banish me from Camelot?”

“I have all the excuses I need already.”

Merlin peers at Arthur a bit more. This can’t be happening.

Arthur sinks to his knees, as if to reinforce the fact that it _is_. He observes Merlin’s breeches, the slow tightening in them that’s all his fault, and stares up at Merlin with an amused grin. “You flatter yourself if you think I’d choke on _that_.”

“You prat!” Merlin unlaces his trousers and fishes himself out of his pants. “What would your blockhead mates say if they saw you like this?”

Arthur doesn’t reply, fixated upon Merlin’s length. Merlin steps forward. Arthur’s mouth opens dutifully —

* * *

— and Merlin jerks awake from the very best/worst bloody dream of his life.

A cursory glance with bleary eyes confirms that he’s still in the dungeons. It’s night-time now. He’s all alone. No Prince Arthur waiting for his mouthful and more.

_Fuck_.

Merlin curses loudly. He hates Camelot. He really, really hates Camelot. Especially its arsehole of a prince, whom Merlin apparently subconsciously wants to shag. William would piss himself if he found out about _this_. His mum would cry from the embarrassment of having birthed him. He’d have to go live with the druids and commune with nature morning, noon, and night.

Suddenly, strident footsteps echo in the corridor.

Merlin sighs. He can guess who it is.

The footsteps stop outside his cell.

“Come to gloat?” Merlin asks, looking at the prat, who’s as golden in firelight as in sunshine as in his bloody _nightmare_. He’s honour-bound to repeat his dream self’s words, obviously. Of course no part of him, not even the tiniest bit, hopes that reality will pursue the path of his imagination. Not at all.

“To suck your cock, really,” says Arthur, smirking. “And prove that princes don’t make idle threats.”

Merlin wastes no time scrambling to his feet.

**Author's Note:**

> they fuck all over the castle before and after falling arse-over-teakettle in love with each other at gedref; the rest is history. 513 who?


End file.
